


Now

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Series: Off Label [10]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mild Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4826234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair and Zevran steal some time alone after the battle in Denerim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Earlgreyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earlgreyer/gifts).



> For [Earlgreyer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Earlgreyer), as an apology for "What Persists." :)
> 
> It really needs a better title, but my brain refuses to hand me anything else, and so I'm giving up.

The battle is pure chaos, the way they always are, and Zevran loves it, the way he always does. He's spent his life learning how to kill efficiently, with as little risk to himself as possible, and he doesn't see a reason to be ashamed of his skills.

And he has rather a lot of skills, but killing? Killing is at the heart of them. Everything else the Crows taught him was a tool only, a means to an end and never the end itself. They had no use for an alchemist or a fighter or a whore; they wanted someone who could be all of those, who could be whatever the situation demanded in order to get the job done.

In order to kill.

Denerim is burning and people are dying all around him, and Zevran laughs as another genlock falls under his knife before it ever knew he was there. The soldiers with him have long since stopped eyeing him askance for his laugh and are instead focused on their own opponents, of which there are certainly plenty. "Horde" is now a word with real meaning for all of them, as the darkspawn come in wave after seemingly-endless wave.

Zevran is beginning to tire, but he doesn't care, because even as exhaustion saps the strength from his arms, that fierce joy is still hot inside him. His breath might be harsh and his lungs aching, but when he climbs a pile of rubble in three leaping strides to fling himself onto an ogre's back, all he feels is exultation. He's doing what he was made for, and there's nothing better in the world.

The ogre falls with a crash they can probably hear on the other side of the city, and Zevran rolls to his feet, knives ready for whatever comes next.

Except all he can see is a handful of soldiers staring at him in mixed awe and fear. The only darkspawn in the vicinity are corpses or well on their way to it, and for the first time in hours, the roar of the fire is the loudest thing Zevran can hear.

"Ser," one of the soldiers says. His voice cracks on the word, and when Zevran looks at him, he flinches. "Ser, the archdemon...." He stops, swallows. "It's dead."

Zevran laughs again, and flings an arm around the man's shoulders. "Then we are victorious, my friend!"

The other soldiers swarm him then, and it's a wonder he doesn't stab someone from pure surprise. He manages to control the impulse as mailed fists thump his shoulders and helmets knock against his head and voices shout prayers and curses with equal delight. It's as chaotic as the battle in its own way, and definitely more confusing for Zevran. Assassins are never given a hero's celebration; even were anyone so inclined, a good assassin is there and gone before anyone thinks to look.

Fortunately, the soldiers move on to congratulating each other soon enough, and Zevran is able to slip away from the center of the crowd. He's covered in blood and now that the fighting is over, the aches are starting to make themselves known. The muscles in his forearms are trembling so much he can barely hold his knives, and it's all he can do to clean and sheathe them before he drops one. He does drop one of his gloves when he peels them off, but he manages to catch it before it hits the ground.

There's a fountain a little ways away, somehow miraculously untainted by corpses, and Zevran scoops up water to wash some of the blood from his face and arms. His armor may be a lost cause, the leather already stiffening as the blood dries, but it served its purpose for today. He's alive, and while there are a hundred problems left to solve, none of them matter right now. All he wants is to find Alistair and a private space, preferably before Eamon has a chance to drag his new king into all the political details that were set aside until the archdemon was dead.

Zevran grins, thinking of Alistair the way he is right after a fight, when the heat of battle melts into a different kind of heat. The same feeling is gathering in Zevran's blood now, and he's thought of half a dozen ways to separate Alistair from the others when one of the soldiers shouts from the other side of the square: "The Wardens!"

The entire crowd moves as one in the direction of that shout, but Zevran doesn't bother joining them, knowing his height will have him at a disadvantage. Instead, he hops up on the lip of the fountain, looking above the massed bodies for the one body he really wants to see. There is indeed a group approaching down a side street, but it can't be the Wardens, because there's no sign of Alistair's blond head or ridiculous helmet.

 _A mistake,_ Zevran thinks, even as his chest feels like he swallowed one of his own grenades. It has to be a mistake, some over-enthusiastic fool with stronger lungs than eyes, who shouted before he'd truly identified who he was looking at. Whoever's approaching, it _can't_ be the Wardens.

No blond head appears across the square, and the three people approaching are now close enough for Zevran to identify them, to see that the soldier who shouted was correct, aside from being unable to count. Warden, not Wardens. The smoke is getting thicker, and he can't breathe, can't force his chest to expand despite the lights beginning to flash in front of his eyes. They lived through these impossible months, made it here against odds so ridiculous not even a fool would have bet on them, and Zevran held up his end of the bargain, kept himself alive through this fight, why couldn't Alistair do the same, why did he have to be stupid and heroic and-

There's a soft jingle of mail behind him, the sort of noise a person in full armor makes when trying for stealth, and Zevran whips around, knives out and teeth bared, ready to make someone else hurt as much as he does.

Alistair steps to the side and catches his wrist in a tight grip, spinning them around so Zevran's arm is twisted up between his shoulder blades. "Walk," Alistair growls in his ear, his other hand closing on Zevran's shoulder. "Before someone sees me."

Zevran gulps in a deep breath as his lungs remember what they're supposed to do. "You're alive," he says, voice too raw.

"Yes," Alistair says, voice and grip softening for a second. Then, in a wondering tone, "We both are."

The promise Zevran made this morning--just this morning?--is echoing in his head, and his lungs stutter again, for a completely different reason. _So long as I breathe, I am yours._ And here he is, still breathing. Here they both are, able to look further into the future than a few days at a time. The reality of those years ahead rolls over Zevran like a wave, and he surrenders to it gladly, lets it drag him under and drown him.

"Zev," Alistair says, voice rough again as it cuts across Zevran's spinning thoughts. "Maker's breath, Zev, _please_ walk, please, I need-" He cuts himself off, his blush almost audible.

His hands relax a little, uncertainty setting in, and Zevran pulls himself together enough to start walking.

There's an alley directly ahead of them, the buildings on either side intact enough to provide some shelter from prying eyes. Alistair's grip tightens again and he crowds into Zevran's space, hurrying him along so that Zevran almost has to jog to save his heels from being stepped on. Heat is building in Zevran's gut again, pushing aside everything but a triumphant chant of _yes now, yes now, yes now_ , an exultation every bit as fierce as the one that carried him through the battle.

In the alley and hidden from the others' sight, Alistair releases him, somewhat to Zevran's surprise. When he turns, he finds Alistair standing with his eyes closed, head tipped back as if listening for something. It's a pose Zevran has seen often enough over the last months, and he waits only a little impatiently.

After almost a minute, Alistair drops his chin and looks at Zevran, whose lungs immediately stop working again. Alistair's pupils are wide, and he looks ready to pounce in the next second.

But he doesn't. Instead, he sets his shield carefully against one burned wall, laying his sheathed sword on a pile of rubble beside it. "There aren't any darkspawn nearby," he says conversationally, "and we have a little time before anyone looks for me." Then he adds more sharply, "Put your knives down."

Zevran has hardly set them aside before Alistair is on him, slamming him back into the wall, mouth hot and desperate. "I need..." he gasps into the kiss before interrupting himself to dive back into it for long moments. When he speaks again, it's barely above a whisper. "I need you."

"What do you need?" Zevran asks, taking two fistfuls of Alistair's hair to kiss him back just as hard. "Will you fuck me right here, against this wall?"

"Maker, yes." Alistair jerks his head out of Zevran's grasp and pins his wrists to the wall above them. His other hand is making short work of the buckles on Zevran's armor, jerking on them with no regard for the damage he might be doing. At least one strap rips free completely, but Alistair doesn't seem to notice. Not that Zevran is paying a lot of attention, either, not when Alistair is groaning into his mouth, muttering an occasional "fuck" for emphasis when a buckle proves particularly difficult.

When most of Zevran's armor is scattered at their feet, Alistair drops to his knees, bringing Zevran's hands down to pin them to the wall on either side of his hips. Alistair's teeth leave marks across his chest, but he doesn't stay in one place long enough to suck bruises into the skin. Or he doesn't, until he gets to the hollow of Zevran's hip where he stops for long seconds, biting and sucking and licking, ignoring the cock resting along the underside of his jaw.

Zevran groans and thrusts against him, wanting more than that tantalizing brush of skin, but Alistair pulls back and looks up. His lips are red and wet, and their proximity to Zevran's cock is the worst kind of tease. The wall against his back is still hot from the fire that destroyed the building's roof, and that heat is seeping into Alistair's gauntlets so that they're almost burning Zevran's wrists, and if Alistair doesn't suck him _now_ , Zevran might have to kill him.

Without breaking eye contact, Alistair brings one of Zevran's hands to his mouth, sliding three fingers between his lips, and it turns out the teasing can be worse. Zevran's gloves protected his hands from blood, but his fingers have to taste like sweaty leather by now. Alistair runs his tongue over them as if it's the best thing he's ever tasted, his breath coming faster and his hands tightening on Zevran's wrists.

There's an obscene wet sound when he finally pulls Zevran's fingers out of his mouth. "I'm going to suck you," he says in a low voice. He's blushing, but there's no stammer, and his gaze is hungry rather than embarrassed as he lets go of the hand he just finished sucking so expertly. "I'm going to suck you, and when I'm done, I'm going to fuck you until neither of us can stand."

 Zevran knows exactly what he's supposed to be doing with his free hand, but for a second, he considers forcing Alistair to stumble his way through, "I want you to fuck yourself while I suck you." Then Alistair licks the head of his cock, and Zevran loses all interest in getting him to do anything else with his mouth.

The angle is terrible, especially with the wall behind him, and he has to twist his shoulder painfully far to do more than tease himself, until he gives up and slings one leg over Alistair's shoulder, not caring that the position leaves him dangerously unbalanced.

One of Alistair's hands is still holding his wrist against the wall, but the other curls around the back of Zevran's thigh, holding him in place while Alistair's mouth slides down his shaft. He clearly has no interest in drawing this out, and he's making noises like their positions are reversed and it's his cock being sucked. His hips are rocking slightly, every movement rattling his armor.

Brasca. His armor. Zevran looks down: at his own naked body, at his cock disappearing into Alistair's mouth, and more than anything, at Alistair, still fully armored and with his eyes closed in concentration. For a second, Zevran is dizzy with amazement as much as arousal, unsure how it is that he's found himself stripped and pinned to a wall getting sucked by a man who _still_ can't say "cock" without choking but who doesn't choke even a little bit when he takes Zevran's cock all the way to the back of his throat.

As Alistair slides back to suck on just the head, his tongue flicking over the slit, his eyes open and meet Zevran's. Something he learned disconcertingly fast: how much his gaze affects Zevran, especially at moments like this. The look on his face says everything he can't with his mouth occupied; Zevran can practically hear Alistair whispering his name, growling "mine" and "yes" into his skin.

His head falls back against the wall and his body jerks in Alistair's grip, the gauntlets biting into his skin as he spends himself in Alistair's mouth. The broken groans Alistair makes as he swallows run through Zevran like lightning, aftershocks that have him twitching until it almost hurts.

Still shaking, he somehow manages to go down on his knees without cutting himself on Alistair's armor. For a moment, they're eye-to-eye, and Zevran kisses him, tongue shoving into his mouth before Alistair pulls away to clamber awkwardly to his feet. It puts the piece of armor protecting Alistair's groin inches from Zevran's nose, so he kisses it, pressing his mouth to it hard enough for the pressure, at least, to reach the skin underneath. It's impossible for Alistair to feel much of anything through the steel, but he gasps anyway, hips rocking, and Zevran grins.

A few awkward seconds to loosen the right straps and shift metal and cloth out of his way, then his mouth is on Alistair's cock, sucking it all in as fast as he can. Alistair grabs his wrists again, pinning them against his armored hips and leaving Zevran only his mouth to work with. It's a challenge to which Zevran can--ha!--rise, and sloppy isn't necessarily bad in this case.

Not that he gets much time to put his skills to use before Alistair is hauling him back to his feet to kiss him, gauntleted hands grabbing the backs of his thighs to lift him into the air. He wraps one arm around Alistair's neck and reaches down to guide his cock into the right position, barely able to concentrate with Alistair's mouth against his, hot and demanding.

The head of Alistair's cock presses into him, and Zevran can feel him shudder even through the armor. "Maker," he breathes, "I love to fuck you right after..." He can't finish, and Zevran doesn't doubt the blush just got a little brighter, and really, it shouldn't send another shock of heat through him but it does.

"You love to fuck me any time," Zevran murmurs in his ear to save Alistair from getting distracted by embarrassment.

"Yes," Alistair moans, and his hips start to move. "Maker, yes, you...ah!...you feel so-"

Zevran kisses him again, feeling the groans vibrate against his own mouth until Alistair presses him back against the wall and buries his face in Zevran's hair. He's _still_ wearing his gauntlets, the metal digging cold and hard into Zevran's ass, holding him open to allow Alistair to fuck him as hard and deep as possible.

He keeps talking, but it's mostly incoherent now, mumbled phrases out of which Zevran can catch maybe one in four. Not that it matters what he's saying; all Zevran cares about is the sound of his voice, words breaking apart into inarticulate noises as he gets closer and closer to release. The wall is rough against Zevran's naked back, and he doesn't care about that either, only about the metal between his thighs and the mouth damp against his neck and the cock rutting into him.

Alistair's body stiffens, and he gasps out "Zev" as he comes. Zevran shakes with him, hit by the pet name as hard as he ever is, by the joint implication that Alistair is so far gone he can't even say two syllables, but that even gone, he knows exactly who he's with. The logical part of Zevran's mind knows that it's easy for Alistair to remember who he's with, since he's only ever been with one person, but his body reacts the same way it reacts to "mine" when Alistair growls it into his ear.

They collapse together, the wall slowing their descent into something almost graceful. Alistair ends up on his knees, Zevran straddling his thighs with his arms still around Alistair's neck.

Almost as soon as they're down, Alistair begins to fidget with his gauntlets, cursing and tugging at them with clumsy fingers. "Off," he mutters. "Off, Maker, get them off."

A little alarmed, Zevran grabs one of his flailing hands and makes quick work of the buckles before moving to the other one. As soon as his hands are free, Alistair takes two handfuls of Zevran's hair and kisses him, hard and desperate, as if they didn't just fuck themselves nearly senseless. He's talking again, still mostly incoherent, but Zevran catches, "...afraid you were dead..." and that's all he needs to know.

He catches Alistair's face and holds him still. "Shhhh." One gentle kiss. "I am here." Another. "And you are here." A third kiss, a little slower. "We survived, and I am here."

Alistair twists his head free so he can drop his forehead on Zevran's shoulder, still shaking. Rather than say anything more, Zevran only wraps his legs around Alistair's waist and strokes his hair until he quiets.

When he tries to pull away, Zevran doesn't let him. "Shhhh," he murmurs again. "Just a little longer." And Alistair relaxes against him, his arms tight around Zevran's chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Random fact of the day: the strips of leather on the skirt-thing that Zevran wears? Those are called pteruges. I decided not to use that word in the story (really didn't want people stopping in the middle of the sex scene to grab their dictionary), but I like it too much not to share.


End file.
